


We Were Born Sick

by magicbubblepipe



Series: Take Me to Church [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, M/M, Pining, Pre-Series, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicbubblepipe/pseuds/magicbubblepipe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the beginning of a series of works detailing the tumultuous, incendiary and hopeless love of Sam and Dean Winchester; inspired by the song Take Me to Church by Hozier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Was Born Sick

Sam has a bruise on his cheek but the other guy looks worse. Much worse. That’s why he’s carrying a note from the principal requesting a meeting with his ‘parents’. The only one home of course, is Dean. Dad’s been out on a hunt for the past two weeks and his mom…well.

He slinks through the front door, hoping Dean won’t look at him hard enough to realize something’s wrong. They’re renting out a relatively crappy trailer from one of Dad’s contacts but it’s better than some places they’ve been. Right now, Dean is stretched out longwise on the living room couch, which is probably older than both of them combined, watching fuzzy reruns of Scooby Doo. He has a six pack of beer sitting by the couch and he seems to be well into his second, feeling loose but not tipsy. Good. Maybe he won’t freak.

Sam tries to retreat to their shared bedroom without calling attention to himself but Dean notices him. Of course he does. “Hey Sammaayyy,” Dean calls. Oh so he’s in a good mood. Sam can now properly spoil it.

“Uh. Hey, Dean,” he replies, trying to sound casual.

It doesn’t work because Dean whips his head around to look at him over the back of the couch. His eyes immediately zero in on the blossom of red and purple high on Sam’s cheekbone. Dean is on his feet in an instant and cupping Sam’s face in his hands. Sam’s whole body heats right up and he tries to shy away from his brother’s hands. Dean makes his grip stronger and tilts his face into the light.

“Who?” Dean asks in that flat, cold voice that means someone is about to be ripped apart.

“It’s not a big deal Dean. He looks worse than I do. Promise.”

“Yeah, I should hope so,” Dean says seriously, “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Just some dumb bully, okay? He snatched my notebook so I…got it back.” Sam steps out of Dean’s grasp and hopes the pink in his cheeks passes for embarrassment.

Dean spots the crumpled piece of paper in Sam’s hand and grabs it before he can protest. He reads it over lets out a low whistle. “Man, you weren’t kidding. This looks pretty serious.”

Sam shrugs and fidgets. “Just lucky I’m not going to juvey I guess.”

“It’s not like you to get so worked up over a notebook, Sam. What was so special about it?”

“Nothing.” Sam says too quickly, defensively. His heart is racing now.

“Well…” Dean says with a growing smirk on his face, “If it’s nothing, then let me see it.”

Something cold drops into Sam’s stomach, sinking low. “See- See what?’

“The notebook, Sam. You’re acting awful shifty.”

“No, no I’m not. Just drop it, alright?”

Dean squints at him, like he’s trying to decide something and then says, “Well, Dad’ll be back in the morning so I’ll forget about this if you will.” He makes a show of crushing the paper in his hand and tosses it into the trashcan.

Sam nods, so thankful for an out that he can’t formulate a proper response. He just launches himself at Dean’s chest and wraps his arms around tight. “Thanks, Dean.” Dean barely gets his arms around his brother before Sam lets him go and runs off to their room.

Dean shakes his head in bewilderment and goes back to his classic cartoons.

…

            Sam closes the door behind him and shrugs off his backpack. With trembling hands, he unzips it and yanks out the notebook. He strokes a fingertip over a small rip on the plain blue cover, no doubt acquired during the struggle. Sighing, he flops down on his bed and shoves the notebook under his pillow.

            His heart is racing and his dick is hard, a shameful reaction to being so close to Dean, from pressing all up along his front and holding him tight. He still has the scent of his brother in his nose and he pulls his t-shirt up over his face, breathing in the trace amounts of Dean-smell that cling to him.

            Sam’s hand finds its way to his crotch and squeezes the bulge there. He lets out a tiny moan and rocks up into the pressure, rubbing his thumb right up under the head. He bites his lip against the name that wants to slip off his tongue and edges his hand underneath his jeans. Once he gets his hand wrapped around his cock it takes an embarrassingly short time to come. Being fourteen has enough disadvantages, without having to factor in the whole ‘in love with your big brother thing’.

After he catches his breath, Sam wipes his sticky hand off on a discarded tank top just under the edge of the bed and fights back the urge to start crying. Instead, he pulls out his notebook and starts to write.

…

            Dad comes home as planned and they drive far from that place. The bruise on Sam’s cheek is passed off as a sparring accident and John is just too tired to press the issue any further. Dean never brings up the notebook again, for which Sam is beyond grateful. They come across a new hunt and a new town where Dean has his nineteenth birthday. Dad buys himself a huge truck and hands down the Impala. The celebration is brief and Dad is gone before they know it and everything is back to normal.

            Sam wises up and starts leaving his notebook in their motel room du jour. He crams it between the mattress and the box spring, only taking it out when Dean isn’t around, which isn’t very often. The only places he really goes are on ‘dates’ (a loose term used to describe the amount of time it takes Dean to meet a girl and then fuck her senseless) or to pick up food.

            It’s the times that Dean is with a girl that Sam writes the most. He fills pages at a time, front and back until his hand hurts too much to write anymore. Then he reads it over until his heart hurts too much to feel anymore, at which point he either jerks off in frustration or falls asleep. But he always, always puts the notebook back under the mattress.

…

            Dean prides himself on being observant, especially when it comes to Sam and right now, the kid isn’t acting right. They’re subtle changes like putting more distance between them when they share a couch or backseat and the casual affection he used to show has all but disappeared; hardly any playful shoves or tickle fights or bedtime hugs.

One could argue that this is just all part of Sam growing up, maturing so that he doesn’t really need Dean as much anymore. Dean isn’t so ready to accept that. He tells himself it’s because he knows Sam better than that, that there has to be something wrong with him. But in the secret part of his mind that doubts and fears, the idea that Sam is outgrowing him is too painful to accept.

Whatever is going on in that big brain, Dean is willing to bet that it has something to do with that notebook. Truth be told, Dean hasn’t really stopped thinking about it since the ‘incident’. He’s caught bare glimpses of it since then and he knows a few facts: it’s blue, and it looks completely ordinary. But the way that Sam is so careful to hide it makes him worry. Maybe he’s got some deep dark secrets in there. Maybe Sam is more troubled than he lets on and he needs to talk to somebody. It’s driving Dean nuts that this notebook is doing something for Sam that he can’t.

And so, against every warning bell in his head and every ounce of good judgment he has, Dean sets out to discover what’s inside it. On the day that this certain mission is set to go down, Dean wakes up earlier than Sam does and carefully pokes through his backpack. Not in there then. He sneaks quietly back to bed and waits for Sam’s alarm to go off. He feigns sleep until Sam gets ready and heads off to the nearest bus stop for school.

Then, he springs into action.

He digs through Sam’s duffle bag, making sure to check the very bottom and the zippered side pocket but no luck. He rifles through the bedside table but all he finds there is a bible, some pens, and some motel stationery. Turning his attention to Sam’s bed, he flips the pillow over, finds nothing, feels around inside the pillowcase and once again comes up empty. Dean scratches his head, looking around the sparse little room. Letting out a tired breath, he drops down onto the edge of Sam’s bed with the intention of peeking underneath. That is, until he hears a distinct crinkle; the vague rustle of paper.

Dean freezes and thinks ‘no way’. He rises and reaches down under the mattress, feeling around until his fingers graze the metal rings of a spiral notebook. He lets out an amused little laugh because he would have never pegged Sam to be so obvious. He might as well have written the word ‘diary’ on the front and done it up with a ribbon. Getting a good grip, he gently tugs the thing free and then he has it sitting right there in his lap.

His heart is beating fast and he has an anxious flutter in his stomach. He chews the inside of his lip for a moment, considering. But he’s already come this far; no use in chickening out now. He thumbs the tiny rip in the inconspicuously blue cover and with a steadying breath, he opens the book.

_**I am sick.** _

That’s all the first page says. Dean’s brows draw together in confusion and he turns the page.

_Your eyes are all I see when I close mine. That’s a lie. It starts with your eyes and it moves down to your nose and your lips. I’m staring at your freckles and the thick dark fringe of your lashes. When you smile, I can’t breathe. I want you so much it breaks my heart._

So it’s a girl that Sam’s all broken up over. Dean supposes he met her in the last town and now he’s all angsty about leaving her. Well, them’s the breaks. Sam just needs to learn to love’em and leave ‘em. Still, he reads on, just to be sure.

_You’re with a girl tonight. I’m so bitter I can taste it on my tongue. She has everything that I want. Everything that I’ll never get to have, if only for a night. I wonder what you’re like with her. Will you be gentle and loving? Will you pretend to care for her until you get what you want or does she know going in what this is? Is she just as desperate to get her hands on you as I am? I don’t think that’s possible. No one on earth has ever wanted anyone as much as I want you. I know that’s probably a childish way to think but I can’t help myself. Not around you._

Dean stares wide eyed at Sam’s scrawl, wondering if he read it wrong. His girl is a lesbian? He’s upset because he loves this chick and she _also_ loves chicks? Dean is torn between pity and hilarity.

_I saw you with your shirt off today. It’s hot, got to be upper eighties, maybe ninety degrees. You took it off so you could wash the car. Watching the sun glint off the water on your golden skin got me harder than I’ve ever been. The broad line of your shoulders, the muscles in your arms and the slim taper of your waist…I could live in the sharp vee of your hipbones._

At first, Dean’s wondering what kind of racy girl Sam’s into when the reality of the situation hits him like a lightning bolt. It’s a guy. Sam’s in love with a guy. Suddenly, it all falls into place: the secrecy, the angsting, the beat down at school… He rereads the first entries and feels a little sick for ever thinking it was funny. Sammy must be going through hell with this.

_I dreamt about you last night. Not that that’s anything new; I dream about you all the time. This dream was different. In this dream, you were just lying with me in bed. You had your arms wrapped around me and I felt so safe, like I always do when you hold me. You pressed your gorgeous lips against the nape of my neck and told me that you loved me and that I wasn’t bad or disgusting. You felt the same. Instead of jerking off in the shower this morning, I cried._

Dean scrubs a hand over his suddenly stinging eyes and closes the journal. He can’t read any more of it, should have never started because now he’s in a terrible spot. He has to tell Sam. He needs him to know that he’s not wrong or bad for how he feels, to reassure him that he still loves him, no matter if he loves girls or guys or fricken’ eggplants.

But he has to be tactful because if Sam finds out he read his journal, he’ll never trust him again. Dean has never been very good at tact.

…

            Sam opens the door to the motel room to the scent of food. He drops his backpack and toes off his shoes as he peeks around the little room divider. Sure enough, Dean is standing in what passes for a kitchenette with a pot on the stove. He’s got two plates full of spaghetti noodles next to him on the small counter and Sam can smell the marinara sauce he’s stirring.

            Sam can’t t help the fact that his heart clenches at the thought of Dean cooking for both of them. It’s times like these that he can pretend it’s just him and Dean, almost like they’re married. The only thing that’s missing is sex and requited love.

            “Mmm, spaghetti,” Sam says, walking up to Dean’s side and peeking into the pot.

            “Don’t worry, I made it with ground beef instead of meatballs, just the way you like.” Dean replies, nudging Sam with his hip. Sam’s stomach flips.

            “Uh, thanks.” Sam says, a little lost for words as Dean clicks off the stovetop and spoons sauce over the noodles on their plates.

            He seems to feel the weight of Sam’s stare and looks over at him with quirked brows. “What?”

            “Nothing, I’m just wondering what made you decide to go all out tonight. Getting tired of Funyuns and hotdog wieners?”

            “Just shut up and take your noodles, doofus,” Dean says, looking a little flustered as he pushes a full plate into Sam’s hands. Sam takes it before it can slop down his front, giving Dean a little curious look before he heads over to the table.

           There’s an odd kind of tension while they eat and it’s so unusual for the two of them that it has Sam worried. He feels like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop when Dean finally says, “So…how’s school?”

            Sam blinks, sure he must have heard him wrong. “Huh?”

            “How. Is. School?” Dean reiterates, slowly like Sam is soft in the head.

            “It’s uh. Fine? I guess? Why?”

            Dean looks down, pushing some spaghetti around on his plate. “What, a guy can’t take interest in his little brother’s life?”

            “No, it’s just. You’re acting kind of weird. Is anything wrong?”

            “ _I’m_ acting weird?” Dean asks, finally meeting Sam’s eyes for the first time since they sat down. “Me?”

            “Yeah, you, and getting weirder by the second.” 

            “It’s you that’s been acting weird lately, Sammy. You’re so uptight. You never wanna talk to me anymore.”

            It’s the fact that Dean sounds genuinely hurt that Sam feels guilty before he comes up with a bullshit response. “I guess I’ve just been kind of moody lately. Sorry.”

            “Don’t apologize, Sam, just tell me what’s wrong.”

            Sam’s teeth clench so hard his jaw twitches. “Nothing is wrong,” he manages to grate out, his throat feeling tight.

            He stands and takes his plate to the kitchen. He drops it in the sink and turns on the water full blast, hoping the noise will discourage any more probing questions. As soon as he’s done cleaning, however, Dean is standing right behind him, looking anxious and this is getting really odd.

            Sam sighs, “What?”

            “Is it a girl?”

            Sam only just manages not to roll his eyes. “God, Dean. No. No, it’s not a girl.”

            There’s a short moment of pause in which Sam thinks he might just drop it when Dean says something he’d never expect. “Is it a boy?”

            Sam’s mouth falls open and his heart trip-slams in his chest, making him feel suddenly sick. “What?”

            “It’s okay, Sam. If it is.”

            Sam feels torn, simultaneously rooted to the spot but with an intense urge to run, run, run and never look back. It’s taking too long for him to respond and it’s getting weird now and where the hell would Dean even get that idea-?

            Realization hits Sam like an ice cold punch in the gut.

            It’s hard to talk without vomiting when he says with a shallow husk of a voice: “You read my journal.”

            Dean goes suddenly very red and he fidgets, clearly wanting to lie but not having the nerve. That’s all the answer Sam needs. He bites down on the inside of his lip, trying to stop the burning in his nose, creeping up behind his eyes. Sam braces his hand against the wall as the earth feels like it’s trying to tip.

            Dean’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, warm against the shock-cold of his skin. Dean’s voice is calling him from somewhere far away and Sam can’t make himself see his brother because he fucking _knows_. Distantly, he feels himself being lowered to the ground and onto his knees, Dean’s hand on the back of his neck, making him bend over a little and give blood to his head.

            When his ears stop ringing Sam meets Dean’s frightened eyes, Dean’s hands petting restlessly through his hair. Only when he hears Dean telling him to “hush, Sammy, please stop crying” does he notice how hard he’s sobbing, the wracked wretched sounds he’s making from deep in his chest.

            “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Sam hears himself saying and Dean looks unspeakably sad and Sam cannot fathom why.

            “Oh, babe,” Dean says quietly. Such a sweet, rare pet name he used to call Sam when he was small, which Sam has always missed. “Don’t be sorry, Sam. It doesn’t matter to me. I swear.”

            What the hell is he saying? Doesn’t matter? Sam shakes his head in confusion, “What do you mean? Your sick little brother is in love with you and it doesn’t fucking matter?”

            Dean’s eyes go so wide it’s almost comical and he’s white as a sheet. It takes Sam a moment to realize his grave error. “You…” Dean’s voice is almost nonexistent. He stands in a hurry and staggers back against the stove. “Me? It’s me?”

            Sam laughs bitterly. “Yeah, of course it’s you, Dean. It’s never been anyone else. I’m so fucking gone for you it’s pathetic.”

            Dean’s chest is rising and falling so rapidly that Sam wonders if he’s going to faint. He’s staring at Sam like he’s just sprouted another head and that hurts exactly as bad as Sam imagined it would. With a choked whisper of, “I gotta go clear my head,” Dean is off across the room and out the door.

            A moment later, Sam hears the grumble of the Impala and a screech of tires as Dean tears out of the parking lot.

            Sam shoves all of his clothes back into his duffel bag, his heart shaking in his chest but the rest of him strangely numb. He fishes his journal out from under his mattress, noting that it’s facing the opposite direction from how he stuck it in there last night. He shakes his head, disgusted with the thing as he crams it into his bag.

            He pushes his shoes back on, forgetting his coat on the rack by the door as he leaves. It had started to rain while they were eating dinner and now it’s a strong downpour. Sam pulls up the hood on his jacket and trudges out into the growing darkness. ‘Just have to get away,’ he thinks, a feverish chant pounding in his head, ‘doesn’t matter where.’

…

            Dean regrets leaving about as soon as he’s out of the parking lot. He stops in front of a bar and can’t make himself go in. He just sits, staring at the neon sign and tries to piece together the scattered remnants of his brain. Sammy. His baby brother Sammy. He’s been writing heartbreaking prose about his own brother. He’s in love. With Dean.

            He rakes a hand back through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. Nothing he’s ever learned would help him understand how to deal with something like this. Not even in his wildest dreams did something like this ever occur to him. He’s not denying that he’s had a few fleeting unbrotherly thoughts about Sam but he never indulged in them; never thought for a moment that Sam was feeling the same way.

            Only one thing is certain to Dean: Sammy needs him right now and he left. He abandoned him like a coward instead of reassuring the poor kid. Sam’s already caught up in the insane idea that he’s sick and wrong and Dean just put the nail right in that coffin. With a whispered curse, he slams the gearshift into reverse and pulls back onto the road.

…

            The motel room is empty. “Sammy!” Dean calls but it just bounces off the walls. Feeling sick, he runs across the room and throws open the door to the bathroom. Empty. He spins back around, eyes searching the room. Sam’s bag is gone. His clothes and his shoes. Not here. He’s gone.

            “Fuck.” He runs back to the Impala.

            With a loose attention to driving laws, Dean speeds down the road, circling the block and then the next, blood rushing in his ears. No Sam. Horrible thoughts are storming through his head. What if something got him? What if he decided to hitchhike or take a bus and now he’s miles away from Dean? What if he’s hurt?

            Feeling gradually closer to a full blown nervous breakdown, he merges onto the highway. He makes it almost a mile before he sees a small figure through the pouring rain, trudging along between the road and the guardrail. He’d recognize him anywhere. With a relieved sound like a sob, he pulls over onto the shoulder, too fast to be safe and throws himself out of the car.

            “Sam!”

Sam is frozen to the spot, eyes glinting wide and frightened in the passing headlights. Dean runs to him, throws his arms around his small frame and crushes Sam against his chest. Sam doesn’t respond but he doesn’t try to get away. Dean pulls back enough to look at his face and Sam is so confused, a hurt little tilt of his eyebrows that Dean never wants to see again. His eyes are red, his lips worried pink and fat and slick with rain and he doesn’t know why he does it but he kisses Sam.

He feels Sam’s shocked little inhale and pushes right into it, opens his mouth against his brother’s and lets out a sigh that’s been trapped inside for years. He never imagined it could feel this good, this right and he wonders why he never thought of doing it before. It takes a good moment but Sam starts kissing him back like he’s starving for it, small hands fisted in the front of Dean’s leather jacket, pulling him as close as he can.

When he notices that Sam’s shaking a little too hard, he pulls him toward the Impala, urges him into the passenger seat. Dean can’t get inside fast enough, cranks the car on and blasts the heat. Sam is staring at him in a daze, pupils so wide that Dean can barely see the hazel anymore. They move for each other at the same time, coming together like a crashing wave.

Sam seems to be trying his damnedest to climb right into Dean’s lap, sucking hungrily at his tongue. Dean groans right into his mouth and grabs Sam around the waist, pulling him on top as Dean leans back against the door. Sam’s erection is a burning hot line against Dean’s lower stomach and he cups Sam’s ass to bring him in harder.

Sam trembles and starts humping at him, mouth wide open for Dean to explore, and he does, kissing him more fiercely than he would ever kiss a girl. Sam moans like he needs it, dick pulsing hot, mirroring Dean’s own where he’s rocking up against Sam’s ass though he’s trying to hold himself back.

Planting his hands on Dean’s chest, Sam sits up, pressing their foreheads together as he starts to ride Dean’s hips in earnest. “Dean, Dean,” he chants, voice dark and hoarse like Dean has never heard it and he feels his own dick blurt out a pool of pre-come into his jeans.

“Christ, Sammy,” he breathes, almost going cross-eyed trying to watch the flush on Sam’s face and the way his mouth forms a perfect little ‘o’ as he gets closer and closer to the edge. “Come for me, Sam.”

Sam lets out a strangled little noise and thrusts his hips. Dean feels the hard dig of his cock as it jerks and spills, right up against him. He trembles and twitches his way through it, moisture seeping through his pants and onto the bottom of Dean’s t-shirt. Dean gets one hand behind Sam and on his own dick, just barely squeezing before he comes so hard his head slings back and bounces off the window.

Sam collapses on his chest and they just breathe together, the air in the car thick and fogging up the windows. The rain still beats down outside. Dean digs his hand up in Sam’s hair, smoothing out the tangles like he did when Sam was little. It works just as well as it had back then and Sam is out like a light.

Dean holds him for a good while before he gently eases him over and gets the Impala back onto the road.  


	2. But I Love It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _command me to be well_

            Sam is so delirious in his happiness that it actually takes him a while to notice that something’s wrong. Namely, Dean won’t let Sam touch his dick. Sam has tried, of course he has. He tried the following morning after the night in the rain. Dean was sleeping next to him in bed and Sam couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to his slack mouth.

            Dean had woken up with a startled moan and pushed into the kiss, his hand sliding up into Sam’s hair. Sam shivered and placed a hand on Dean’s warm chest, sliding down, over the ripples of his abs and down. His fingers just barely brushed the hardening line of his cock when Dean grabbed him by the wrist and flipped Sam deftly onto his back, pinning both hands up by his head.

            He slid a thigh right up against Sam’s crotch, kissing him deep enough to make Sam’s toes curl. In the time it took Sam to start rocking up against Dean’s thigh and come in his shorts, he’d forgotten about getting his hand on Dean. While he was still trembling from his orgasm, Dean had gotten up and taken care of himself in the bathroom.

            When Sam realized this was becoming a problem, he started to try other tactics like sliding his hand up his thigh under diner tables or in the Impala or trying to bury his face in Dean’s crotch when he’s tired enough to be a little slow on the uptake. But nothing has worked. Dean always came to his senses fast enough to divert Sam’s attention, usually with his mouth on Sam’s and a hand down his pants.

            It’s been two weeks since that first night and Sam is sick with worry. Maybe Dean never actually wanted this. Maybe he’s just putting up with it to please Sam. It would be just like him to put Sam first, before all of his own wants and needs; Dean, ever the martyr. It makes Sam feel more wrong than he ever did when his feelings were a just a dirty secret. He can’t stand the idea of dragging Dean down with him.

            So he stops. He withdraws, never touching, never showing any unbrotherly affection, distancing himself like he never had before because now that he’s had Dean, it’s almost impossible to go back. It doesn’t take Dean very long to notice but he never says anything about it. He just watches Sam more often, a look of deep confusion in his eyes that Sam can’t meet.

            Two weeks more go by and Sam feels like he’s drowning. They’ve gone almost across country, following their dad in the Impala from place to place. The hours in the car drag on and on and they hardly speak. Sam can feel the tension between them like a third person and he knows that sooner or later, something is going to break.

            It’s biting cold in their Michigan motel room and hot water is a precious resource. That’s a damn shame because the shower is pretty much the only place where Sam can jack off in peace. Dean hardly leaves the room because it’s been icing so much that it’s truly difficult to stand being outside. A particularly bad blizzard has the schools currently shut down, which leaves Sam and Dean trapped together in a place far too small to contain all of the angst and frustration rolling off them in waves.

            It’s an unspoken agreement that Sam takes the first shower. Another one of those ‘putting Sammy first’ things that drive him kind of crazy. Dean decides to shuffle up the block to the general store because they’re running low on canned goods and Sam takes this opportunity to stay in the bathroom as long as he wants. Dean’s been driving him so crazy lately that he’s at least half-hard most of the day.

            The water feels like heaven on his icy skin and he sighs as the hot rivers trail down his back and sides, snaking around his chest and dripping down. He washes his hair quickly and then soaps up his body. He trails sudsy hands over the smooth wet of his thighs and lets his head tip back under the spray. He takes his time wrapping a hand around his throbbing dick and starts stroking firm and slow.

            The broken little noise that escapes him echoes around the bathroom, under the soothing _shh_ of the water. For the first time in a while, he feels free to let his mind wander, thinking about strong, broad hands gripping his hips, pulling him back against a firm chest. “Dean,” he whispers, thrusting up into the wet grip of his hand. He focuses on the vivid memory of Dean’s plush lips sliding against his own, Dean’s tongue in his mouth or on his neck.

            He’s panting now, and it’s all too easy to imagine his hand as Dean’s mouth, sucking him down deep like he’s never done. Sam plants a hand against the wall with a wet slap and jerks himself roughly, feeling the heat coil tight and fast in his balls. He comes with a sudden jerk and a half-shout of something like his brother’s name, the shower quickly washing away the globs of white clinging to his hand.

            Sam leans heavily against the wall, catching his breath. The water has started to go cold. He’d catch flak from Dean for that if they were actually speaking. He steps out and towels off, catching his blurry reflection in the mirror. He looks flushed and strangely disjointed. Sometimes he barely recognizes what he’s become. With a frustrated sigh, he wraps the towel around his hips and opens the door.

            The first thing that hits him is the cold air of the motel room and the second is Dean’s hand square in the middle of his chest. Sam follows that hand up to Dean’s eyes which are boring right into him. He looks a little pink-cheeked and a lot pissed off and Sam wonders what the hell he did this time.

            “You still want me.” Dean says flatly, not a question.

            Sam blinks at him owlishly, “Like I could ever stop?”

            Dean shakes his head, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “Then why? Why don’t you still wanna…” he gestures between them, at a loss to describe what they’ve been doing.

            Dean’s hand is still burning a brand into Sam’s chest and he can’t bring himself to step away. “You can come off it now, Dean,” Sam replies, not trying to repress the venom in his voice, “You may think what you’re doing is fucking noble but it sucks.”

            “The hell are you talking about?”

            “I’m talking about your goddamn martyr complex. I’m talking about you whoring yourself out to me just to make me happy. I can’t stand the idea of taking advantage of you like that, Dean, so just stop.”

            Sam swipes his hand off his chest now and pushes his way past Dean and into the room.

            Dean’s voice is quiet, barely audible when he says, “Is that what you think this is?”

            “You gonna tell me any different?” Sam shoots back over his shoulder, digging around in his duffle for a pair of boxers.

            Dean’s hands around his waist come as a total surprise, as does being tossed onto the bed. Dean’s right there, looming over him and pinning him down. “Listen to me, you little brat,” he all but hisses, warm breath ghosting over Sam’s face, “Nobody takes advantage of me. I touch you because I fucking want to touch you.”

            “But why can’t I touch you?” Sam demands, refusing to be cowed, “You always push me away.”

            “Because that’s not your job. It’s _my_ job to take care of _you_.”

            “But I want to, Dean. I want to touch you so bad; don’t you get it? It’s not like ‘thanks for getting me off, here’s a freebie’. I want to see your face when you come; I wanna feel the weight of your dick in my hand or my mouth; want you to take me whenever you want. I wanna get to take care of you for once. Don’t you want that?”

            Dean’s face seems to crumple in on itself and he groans, dropping his forehead against Sam’s. “Sammy. God, I want that so bad. Of course I do but…”

            “But nothing. Lemme take care of you Dean. Please,” Sam’s close range puppy eyes seem to be crushing Dean’s resolve and he finally relents, pushing his hips down against Sam’s with a broken whine.

            Sam gasps, his own dick going desperately hard almost immediately and he rolls his hips against Dean’s. He kisses his way over to Dean’s ear and whispers, “Get on your back.”

            Dean nods slowly and moves, taking Sam’s place on his back and Sam sits astride his hips. His towel slips away and he tosses it aside, letting his erection bob freely. The sight of it makes Dean groan and he grips Sam’s hips tight enough to bruise. With a coy little smile, Sam reaches for the buckle of Dean’s belt. He has his pants undone in record time and presses a warm little palm over the straining ridge of Dean’s cock in his underwear.

            “Fuck, baby,” Dean groans, wriggling his hips into the slight pressure. Sam bites his lip as he reaches in and pulls Dean out through the gap in his boxers.

            He’s never seen Dean completely hard before and it takes his breath away a little bit. He’s so much bigger than Sam is, thick and flushed and perfect. The girth is new and challenging in Sam’s hand; he’d need both hands to jerk him properly. That was the plan initially but the sight of pre-come blurting from the tip makes him rethink his strategy.

            Before he can get nervous about it, Sam shimmies down enough to swipe his tongue along the slick head, earning a sharp twitch and a shout of “sonofabitch!” from Dean. Sam huffs out a little laugh and kisses the slit, making Dean shiver. He flicks his tongue out, probing at the little hole experimentally and getting another gush of slick for his efforts.

            Dean’s hand lands on his head, palming his damp hair, tangling it in his fingers. “God, Sam, fuck,” he mutters, hips shifting restlessly on the bed. That gives Sam the confidence to take the tip into his mouth, testing its weight on his tongue and sucking gently. Dean lets out a long keening noise and thumps his head back against the mattress.

            Sam hums and takes him in until he starts to choke, wrapping the rest up in the snug grip of his hand. He lets his spit slide down the shaft as he starts bobbing his head, trying his best to move his mouth and hand in tandem. Dean is babbling utter nonsense, spreading his legs further and bracing his feet on the bed. His hips wriggle so much that Sam has to put an arm across his waist to keep him still.

            “Sammy…Sammy, Jesus…” he pulls tighter at Sam’s hair, probably a warning but Sam doesn’t care, he just moves a little faster, sucks a little harder. He looks up through the wild strands of his hair and catches Dean’s burning gaze and that seems to do it. Dean’s mouth falls open, his back bows up and with a violent shudder he starts to come.

            The sheer amount takes Sam by surprise and he’s not able to swallow it all. He makes up for it by thoroughly licking him clean, catching all the stray drops off his chin and sucking them into his mouth. Dean’s breathing raggedly, staring down at Sam like he just hung the moon or something equally amazing. He sits up a little shakily, grabs Sam and pushes him down onto the bed. He kisses Sam square on the mouth, moaning at the taste of himself on Sam’s tongue.

            He trails his mouth down, skimming over hard pink nipples and heaving belly until he arrives at the purpling jut of Sam’s dick. He skates a palm over it, rubbing beads of precome over its length and Sam hisses, flinching up into the touch.

            “Got such a cute little cock,” Dean says, voice gravelly and deep. Sam squirms, wanting to argue the totally not-cuteness of his very manly erection but loses the words when Dean sucks him down in one smooth motion.

            Sam’s brain short-circuits and he gasps, his whole body jerking up into the molten wet of Dean’s mouth. Dean just moans around him, braces a hand on Sam’s hip and starts blowing him in earnest. Sam can feel his orgasm gathering down low and he knows he’s not going to be able to last. “Dean…Dean, ‘mgonna…”

            Dean just doubles his efforts, adding a little sucking twist up around the head and that’s what does him in. That and the sight of Dean’s perfect pink lips wrapped around his dick and his eyes staring right into Sam’s. His orgasm hits him like a freight train, harder than ever before and he just about screams himself hoarse as he spills into his brother’s waiting mouth.

            Dean swallows around him, the fluttering of his throat sending sharp little zings of pleasure all through Sam’s body. He comes to when Dean releases him and starts tugging his clothes off. Sam is too jelly-limbed to move so he just lies there when Dean slides into bed and pulls the covers up around them. He presses up against Sam and Sam snuggles right in, their shared heat a heavenly respite from the frigid room.

            It feels like forever since Sam’s felt so perfectly safe and happy, so warm after being cold for so long. “I love you, Dean.” He doesn’t really expect a response but he has to get it out before he loses the nerve.

            He’s almost asleep when Dean pulls him in just a little tighter and whispers into his hair, “Love you, Sammy. Always.”


End file.
